


Ghosts in Your Memory

by Goldy



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor senses his other self in the other universe. Originally written post-The Next Doctor. Smooching, fluff, and some angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts in Your Memory

He wakes with a sharp gasp, a bead of sweat trickling down his back, and a tight ball of anxiety unfolding in his stomach. His gaze roams unfocused over the room before he squeezes his eyes shut, hovering in a place between sleep and awareness. He hates it, this fuzzy grogginess he now gets in the mornings.

It’s times like this that he forgets, just for a second, who and where he is.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his stomach still curled up in unease, his heart still beating too fast. He knows what it is, of course—has since he was first left in this world.

His other self; calling out. His mind has been empty for so long that he supposes it’s only natural that they would reach out, even across universes.

He throws off the covers and swings his legs over the bed, shaking his head to clear it. He considers going in search of a cup of tea, but then heads towards the loo, figuring that tea can wait. He needs to see Rose.

He finds her in the bathroom, shaving her legs. Her foot is perched on the edge of the tub and she’s leaning forward, tongue peaking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Her hair is still damp from her shower, and she’s only wearing a shirt— _his_ shirt—and a pair of knickers.

He grabs his toothbrush and then sits down on the toilet seat, pretending to brush his teeth, but in reality openly staring at her. It almost doesn’t feel real—this simple scene of domesticity staring him right in the face.

Rose. In their bathroom—shaving her legs and wearing his shirt.

It’s almost like the last few months never happened, like watching Rose shave her legs is something miraculous and impossible. _They all leave in the end_ , he thinks, with a wave of bitterness and longing.

It’s not exactly _his_ memories, _his_ feelings, but it could be. It could be him stuck in that other universe, miles and lifetimes away from Rose and this quiet, mad life they’ve built for themselves.

He rises and spits out toothpaste into the sink. He tries to ignore the fact that he could be called a voyeur—spying on his other self’s feelings like this. Except the other him _is_ the Doctor and _he’s_ the Doctor, and where does the line between the two of them start and end?

He rinses out his mouth and then raises his head to look into the mirror. A familiar pale face dotted with freckles stares back at him. Technically speaking, that face grew out of a hand several months ago. Not his memories, then. Not his feelings. Just borrowed.

He doesn’t like to think that way, though, and knows Rose especially can’t. He’s the _Doctor_ , not the one and only, but still the same. It works for them, and he isn’t quite prepared to have some ridiculous identity crisis over the semantics of a Time Lord-human biological metacrisis.

He places the toothbrush back into its holder, sliding it in next to Rose’s. He studies them for a moment, their toothbrushes, sitting side by side. Hers is purple and his is light blue. It’s the most insignificant thing, really, sitting toothbrushes side by side, and yet…

He’s never had a life like this.

“You all right?” comes a voice behind him.

He turns around, pushing thoughts of toothbrushes and a biological metacrisis from his mind. Rose has finished shaving and she stares at him, biting down on her bottom lip. She looks like she’s trying to see right through him.

He suddenly and desperately needs to touch her.

He closes the distance between them, wondering how much—if any—of this is being broadcasted back to his other self. He should try, though, shouldn’t he? It seems so unfair that he should experience all this, all the new _humanness_ of it all, while his other self is left with nothing.

“Hello,” he whispers to Rose, voice quiet and seductive. His hands stop to rest just above her hips, his fingers bunching the material of her— _his_ —shirt. He leans in to nuzzle her neck, getting a whiff of her shampoo and body wash.

“Good morning,” Rose says with a sigh, warm breath against his ear. One of her hands curls into his hair, fingers idly scratching against his scalp.

“Rose,” he says and presses his lips to her chin. She shivers, and he pulls away, staring intently into her eyes. “Tell me you love me.”

Her brow furrows like she senses something he’s not telling her. Her hand slips from his hair, but then her palm cups his cheek, fingers brushing against his jaw.

“I love you.” He closes his eyes, mouth going dry at the words. A second later, she’s kissing him, lips brushing against his chin, the corner of his mouth, his nose, his eyelids. “I love you,” she repeats.

He feels a twinge of guilt for hiding this from her, the fact that he can maybesortof share this with his other self. Rose’s hand sweeps across his brow, and the steadiness of her gaze makes him wonder if she all ready knows. He’s not usually this needy.

“I love you,” he mumbles back.

A moment later, she presses her lips to his and his hands slip around her waist before pressing against her back, drawing her closer to him. Her nose brushes against his and he deepens their kiss.

He spares a momentary thought towards his own sanity (hearing his other self in another universe? _Really_? Time to visit the Torchwood shrink is more like it…). Then he thinks about Rose in his shirt, and how many buttons she’s done up and how long it would take him to undo them and whether or not this would give them enough time to meet Jackie for breakfast.

It’s a complicated burst of thoughts and he manages to parse through them in a manner of seconds. Half-seconds. He is, after all, half-Time Lord.

His hands dip under her shirt, sliding against warm skin. Rose grins into his mouth, a grin he recognizes—a grin that tells him she no longer cares about meeting her mum for breakfast. Her foot curls around the back of his heel and she draws him closer.

“What brought this on?” she manages to say, her nose pressing against his cheek.

His hands stop their path up her back. “I suppose...” he begins, not quite sure how to put his connection with his other self into words. It’s not that he’s getting the other Doctor’s memories. No, not quite like that. It’s more like impressions, _feelings_ —feelings that he remembers all too well.

“Doctor?”

“I suppose that I was glad to see you.”

Rose coaxes him into looking at her. “You sound surprised.”

“The good kind of surprised, Rose Tyler,” he says, voice dropping. He kisses her again and her foot rubs against his ankle, up his leg. “Very, very… good.”

She doesn’t seem like she needs much convincing. “You taste like toothpaste,” she says in response. Her fingers curl at the back of his neck and one hand slips down his chest, beginning to fiddle with his buttons. “I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”

“I know,” he says. Even if he doesn’t—even if he’s thinking about parallel worlds and death by Dalek extermination. But it’s like the word ‘forever.’ He _wants_ to believe. He clears his throat. “Have I told you that you look lovely in that shirt?”

Her eyes light up. “I like it. Reminds me of this bloke I used to go travelling with.”

“Used to?” he says. “Rose, just last week we went all the way out to UNIT headquarters in Belgium. Don’t tell me that wasn’t exciting—”

Rose rolls her eyes and grabs a fistful of his shirt to pull him in for another kiss, clearly finished with talking. He grins into her mouth. It didn’t take him very long in this universe to learn that there are some things that are just as much fun as travelling.


End file.
